***Somewhere in Wyoming***

A mourning dove flitted down to a branch and paused for a moment to scan the forest floor and nearby trees for tasty seeds.

Something was wrong. The bird didn’t really have the words to describe it, but something about the forest had felt…off over the last few months. The dove had unknowingly been herded further and further west as its instincts, honed over millions of years, warned the bird that it was being hunted.

It didn’t see a predator…but something was wrong.

The dove didn’t spare it any thought, though, its tiny brain instead registering delight when it spotted some fresh seeds on the ground.

When it leapt off the branch, that’s when things started going poorly for the bird.

The dove’s feet were held in place by a sticky substance coming from the branch itself.

In panic, the dove pulled as hard as it could, but the branch’s grip was simply too strong. A maw emerged from the branch and engulfed the bird.

A moment later, all that remained of the dove was a lump in the tree-branch.

But its story didn’t stop there.

Over the course of a few minutes, the lump in the tree branch dwindled to nothing, then swelled again, returning to its previous size and shape. moments after it reached full size the dove burst out of the cocoon, flapping its wing in panic as it escaped from the creature that had just let it go.

Now properly terrified, the bird decided to fly until it simply couldn’t anymore, find a new forest and settle down there. There was just too much scary stuff happening around here for the dove’s tiny brain to handle.

Best relocate.

The Dove got about five miles outside the forest before it disappeared in an explosion of feathers.

“Aw, man, I don’t like shooting animals. That was a dove.” Kenny said, lowering his binoculars.

“Them’s the rules,” Gary said, lowering his rifle. “Shoot anything and everything coming out of those woods. This is a holy mission from Tyrannus himself.”

“You believe that god stuff?” Kenny asked.

“Can you breathe fire and fly?”

“Fair enough, I guess.” Kenny muttered raising his binoculars and scanning for small animals that might be trying to escape the quarantine, just like the hundreds of spotters to his immediate left and right.

“be right back, I’mma take a dump,” Gary said, raising the flag that indicated their shooter was on break.

Kenny followed him.

“What are you doing?” Gary asked.

“Did you not hear the Acolyte explain in great detail that we weren’t to leave each other’s sight?”

“I mean you don’t gotta…” Gary trailed off.

“So it’s a divine mission when you get to shoot small animals, but not if someone’s gotta follow you to the bathroom?” Kenny asked.

“Fuck you, let’s get this over with,” Gary muttered as he stalked away into the bushes, Kenny close behind. The sharpshooter hooked his thumbs in his pants and prepared to pop a squat, using a nearby fallen log as an impromptu toilet seat

Dozens of tendrils whipped out of the log and lashed around Gary’s arms and chest.

“Um. Kenny?” Gary said, his voice quavering.

“Oh, shit!” Kenny shouted, reeling backwards.

Above them, the sky turned a vibrant shade of gold and crimson as a dome of shimmering magic settled over the forest they’d been quarantining, as well as a quarter mile beyond, trapping all the soldiers inside.

“Oh.” Kenny said, looking up, his heart sinking. “Shit.”

Then the dome began to glow, and Kenny could feel the heat building from it, like the warmth of a campfire, an oven, a forge, a raging bonfire.

“You want the bad news or the good news?” Kenny said to his struggling partner.

“Good news, please.” Gary hissed, still struggling against the tendrils digging into his skin.

“You’re not gonna get eaten,” Kenny said moments before the dome went white hot, vaporizing everything under it. There was an instant of pain, then nothing…

“Excess biomass removed from the area,” Amanda the Technician said, looking a little green around the gills as they observed the dome flicker out of existence, revealing a patch of flat carbon dust where once had been a forest and several hundred loyal citizens.

“Good,” Tyrannus said, lowering his claws. Vaporizing such a huge swath of land was exhausting, but he would never let his subjects know he had limits. He needed to arrange a new deal with demonic entities yesterday, but so many of them were hesitant to make arrangements with someone who had wiped an entire breed of them out.

Since his deal with demons had fallen through, the road was dying. Normally he’d be able to borrow its power to produce effects of this magnitude, but in order to preserve its withering life as long as he could, Tyrannus was forced to shoulder the burden manually.

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“Send in the heavy equipment to peel back the surface and make sure there isn’t a primary body under there.” Tyrannus said.

Minutes later, the ash-covered soil was being peeled back, making sure there were no substantial lumps of Mimic preserved underneath.

After getting the tip from Paradox, Tyrannus had shifted his research into the tales of Abun’zaul’s tactics and those of mimics in general. The creature seemed to have a penchant for storing most of its bulk underground while copying entire cities above.

It had moved slowly through the northwest of Manita, oozing through the topsoil inches per day, turning one city after another into an inexplicable ghost town over hundreds of years, finally stopping when it took its act too far and killed itself as revenge against…itself.

Allegedly.

Evidence was slim.

“Did we have to…burn our own men too?” Amanda asked.

“Short answer: Yes.” Tyrannus said, glancing down at the tiny ape. “The long answer is the virulence of the mimic is such that a single infected human can destroy the entire west coast, and both divination and statistics indicated that fifteen percent of those under the dome had likely become infected, knowingly or unknowingly.”

“If we do not come down on this disease with the righteous force and unwavering determination that it demands, we may lose our lives, and our very country to this monster.”

The math favored a zero-tolerance policy.

“I see.” Amanda the lab tech nodded, still a little sick-looking, but with newfound resolve.

***Chris Sunflower***

“You already did every test known to man,” Chris said, desperately wishing he could punch the balding egghead through the four-inch thick glass he was sequestered behind. “Let me go or kill me already.”

“And where’s my family? I went to the Acolytes Specifically so they could do something about the problem, but they just shoved me in a box. Fan-fucking-tastic.”

Chris paced back and forth, not giving the balding professor a chance to respond. He already knew their answers anyway.

“I assure you-“

“And where’s Mary?” Chris demanded. “Why the hell are you keeping me – us – in a tiny glass box anyway?” He gestured emphatically to the ten by ten glass box he was currently pacing. “The fuck?”

He felt like someone’s prize beetle.

“You friend is-“

“I swear to god if I get my hands on my dad I’m gonna whip his ass.” Chris muttered, pacing back and forth. He’d promised it. If his stupid farming gambit got his siblings or mom hurt…

Gee, I couldn’t have known the most dangerous, untamed place in the empire would have dangerous, untamed monsters, Chris. Whoops!

Chris vividly imagined a right hook to the jaw to put Harv on the ground, followed by some crisp kicks to tender areas.

“I assure you…” The balding clipboard jockey said, hesitating a moment to make sure Chris wasn’t going to interrupt him again. “Your friend is fine, the authorities are aware of the problem, and actively working to contain it. Your family has been relocated to a similar quarantine site.”

Chris had deferred to authority…the first couple days. But if there was any valuable skill Harv had taught him…it was disrespect.

“Really?” Chris said.

“Of course.”

“Pics or it didn’t happen.”

“What?”

“Give me polaroid pictures of my friend and my family. Or does that somehow violate quarantine?”

“That’s…”

“They’re dead, huh?” Chris asked, his guts turning cold.

“No. I’ll pass your request up the chain.” The man said, standing from his stool. “The information we’re allowed to give you is somewhat restricted.

“WHY!?” Chris demanded.

“Because while all the tests we’ve conducted on you and your friend have come back negative, both of your accounts of the day you escaped the creature have some…inconsistencies.”

That would be the sex, Chris thought, jaw clenching up. Neither of them were particularly eager to be forthcoming about it.

“From what we know of the creature’s tactics and previous history, your escape is considered to be highly likely to be a deliberate super-spreader event. You will remain under surveillance until we are one hundred percent sure you are Chris Sunflower, and not a trojan horse. Beyond a hundred percent, even.”

Chris rolled his eyes.

“I’m not a condom-horse, obviously.” He motioned to himself.

The bearer of the almighty clipboard pushed up his glasses and scowled.

“I’ll add a note to your file that children should be introduced to the classics more often in school.”

“I was homeschooled.” Chris said.

“It shows.”

***Richard Tinner***

Richard, or Rich to his friends – calling Richard ‘Dick’ went out of style a long time ago – was parking another impounded car.

Parking a performance demonic sports car with eight imp-power thrumming under the hood was the highlight of his drab existence. For a brief moment he got to feel like the rich kid whose parents had bought him a fancy new toy.

Before he’d got caught driving while intoxicated, anyway.

Soon enough, the money would change hands, the kid would get a slap on the wrist, and Rich and…

Let’s call her Esmerelda, on account of the paint job and the sassy accelerator.

Rich and Esmerelda would soon part, but for a brief time, he got to drive her…down to the parking spot.

Rich turned off the sports car with a sigh, missing the days when he could do donuts in the lot and take his ‘clients’ out on joyrides with impunity.

Goodbye Esmerelda. I’ll never forget you.

He popped open the door and stepped out into the impound parking garage, taking in the faint sulfur scent of demon blood and motor oil, the most sensory information he could get in the dim lot, since it had barely enough light to find the open spaces between cars.

Wait…

Rich frowned as his ears picked up a faint, distinctive squeaking sound. A rhythmic squeak of suspension that could only be two things:

Horny teenagers going at it in an impound lot.

Or somebody trying to steal their piece of shit car back, since they couldn’t afford the impound fees or a new car.

Rich preferred the former. It was fun to watch kids run full-speed with their pants around their ankles.

He pulled his oversized flashlight from his belt and scanned it in the direction of the squeaking.

Hmm.

Usually turning on the flashlight was enough to make any trespassers bolt, but whoever was doing the deed back there was really into it.

Squeak, squeak, squeak, squeak…

Rich rolled his eyes at the distinctive sound and began hoofing it that way, scanning the cabins for movement.

He found the winner a moment later, a rusty hood wiggling back and forth in time to some kid’s vigorous thrusting.

It was the 1956 F-100.

“God-damnit!” Rich hissed, breaking into his best furious waddle.

Some bigwig had handed down an order for the truck to be destroyed, some sort of accessory to a crime or something stupid like that. Rich had recognized the truck though. It was part of a limited run of six thousand trucks produced in the fifties. Sure, it was a rust-bucket, but if he took it home and cleaned it up, he could walk away with upwards of twenty grand for the collector truck. Maybe more.

So he faked the documents stating that it’d been destroyed, gave the truck a fake license and was currently clearing out a spot in his garage to house the thing so he could get to work on it.

He’d be damn pissed if some teens were messing with his payday.

“Hey you kids better-“ Rich said, leaning against the truck and pointing his flashlight down into the cabin.

Nothing.

Frowning, he leaned to the right and checked the bed of the truck.

Obvious in hindsight, I suppose.

Also nothing.

Did they just bolt and I didn’t see them? There’s nowhere to hide…

All of Rich’s questions were answered when he tried to take his hand off the rusty panelling.

I’m…stuck?

For a brief instant, he thought he might be the subject of a prank by Roger, but a moment later, an eye opened up on the truck’s rusty panelling.

“Oh, shit.” Were Rich Tinner’s last words.